New Orleans, Louisiana.

The smiling old woman wrapped the thick collection of yellow, pink and red flowers in paper, keeping an eye on the young man over her shoulder as she did so, some long dead singer crooning on the radio to old-time jazz. "You sure you want to do this alone Emil?" she asked, her eyes worried over her apple cheeks. "It wasn't your fault what happened…." The young man looked up from his scruffy boots for the first time, peering at the dumpy old woman through the curtains of his lanky hair.

"Yes it was, Mrs. Appleby," he said simply, the old florist offering a sympathetic smile over the counter as he stuck his hands further into his pockets. "D-do you think she'd like them?" `Well I'm goin' to New Orleans….'

"Take it from me hon," Mrs. Appleby said strolling into the back room to get a length of ribbon, her voice drifting through the doorway as Emil eyed the black and white photo's on the wall without really seeing them, "all girls like flowers from her sweetheart. Although," she added, coming out with a single dark red rose in her hands, "roses always worked the best. A rose for Emil." He took it from her as she tied the ribbon around the bouquet, wincing slightly as one of the thorns cut into the ball of his thumb. "Oh no, sweetheart, here," she cried, passing over an embroidered handkerchief. "I'm so sorry dear."

"I'm fine," Emil assured her, pressing the handkerchief against his thumb. "Just a scratch, Mrs. A, really. Uh nice music, by the way." Mrs. Appleby tutted, trying to hide a smile. `When I see the Mardi Gras, I wana know what carnival's for….'

"I know dear, but you've been through so much recently, and now I've gone and done this."

"Yeah, well, life," Emil muttered, his jaw tight as he tossed the bloodstained handkerchief back over the counter and snatching up the flowers. Yellow primrose and bird's-foot-trefoil, pink lobelias and carnations: the sweet scent was almost overpowering sticky. "What do I owe you?"

"Oh, hon, it's free of charge," Mrs. Appleby said, plucking the rose off the counter where the young man had dropped it, slipping it into the center of the bouquet, before reaching up to pat his check over his mumbled protests. "But you have to promise to take care now. Be back home before sunset, especially with all these disappearances. Your dear old mother's got to have someone to look after her after-."

"I-I understand," he said holding up a hand. "Thanks but-."

"We've had far too much death here," the little old lady continued firmly. "Everybody's lost someone, Emil. So don't you go shutting yourself out-you hear? Getting yourself hurt. If there's one thing I don't hold with, it's being selfish.

"Guess that's what I'm good at." Emil muttered.

"Now don't you go believing' what that lot is telling you." The old lady held up a warning finger. Emil nodded closing his mouth. "It wasn't your fault. Now say it back to me."

"It … wasn't my fault." he whispered.

"Good," Mrs. Appleby said. "Now you try an' believe that young man." Emil nodded slowly, squaring his skinny shoulders, muttering a small thank you.

"I promise Mrs. Appleby."

The old woman smiled. "That's all I ask." The bell chimed as a giggling couple walked in, Emil skirting around them into the warm, buttery afternoon sunlight "Now what can I do for you dears?" `When I get to New Orleans, I wanna see the Zulu King.'

Long after sunset, Emil stumbled into the unlit room, the last remaining beer bottle dropping from his fingers and rolling away under one of the dark red moth-eaten seats. Another, half empty and soon to be finished, occupied the other hand. He took a swig, collapsing into one of the last chairs before the stage. The theatre had long been out of business - kids in the neighborhood would often dare each other to go in. Once in a while someone would talk about restoring it or bulldozing it entirely but never loudly and never for long. The streets were still bustling outside, but somewhere in the darkness, something moved.

Emil caught up in drinking and moaning at the empty stage didn't notice as he tipped the final drops down his throat and tossed the bottle behind him. There was the dull thud of it hitting flesh. Emil turned, saw what was coming and jerked to his feet, mouth opening wide to scream.

He never got the chance, but the teenagers who found him, with his neck snapped at an almost clean 90-degrees, took a long while to stop.